I’m sitting on my balcony, half drunk, tears running down my face. I’m pretty sure people walking their dogs could just hear me crying as I lay on the couch, clutching a pillow, and moaning like an asshole.
Here’s the thing: I am sad. Very, very, very sad.
I deny it every day, but all it does is make me feel antsy; full when I’m empty, empty when I’m full. I can’t tell which end is up. The heat here makes my skin prickle, but I’m cold inside.
My exhusband is marrying his girlfriend — no, fiancée — in the fall. It happens to happen the weekend before Peyton’s birthday and they’ve conveniently planned it so they’ll be out of town not only for the big day itself (old enough to notice, if you must know), but they’ll also be gone the weekend before and the weekend after is their big “wedding party.” Sorry, Peyton, but your dad and future step-mother are selfish sons-of-bitches who know no ends to their narcissism. They have yet to break the news.
Secondly, I am barely making ends meet, yet my ex continues to go on love-trips with his fiancée every other month. Expensive excursions, though not luxurious, but I know even a weekend trip by car can cost hundreds of dollars let alone a plane ticket away. Of course they leave the kids at home, leaving Peyton thinking there’s something on the child’s end of responsibility to that. Oh, did I forget to mention the kids (hers and mine) are not invited to the wedding?? Nope. It’s just the two love birds “and an officiant.” Good for fucking you, exhusband.
Thirdly, while my ex is off getting married, moving in, and sending rejection messages to our kid, I can’t even get my boyfriend to stay the night or go away for the weekend with me. He absolutely refuses most nights and the trips aren’t even an option. Forget it, Hy. I hate traveling. My parents dragged me blah blah fucking blah. The truth is, he’s ok with hanging out in our apartments for the rest of our fucking lives.
They’re not connected, I know, but yet they are. I can’t fucking help it. The Neighbor says he’s forgotten his “slut kit” (a.k.a. contact stuff, toothbrush, etc.) but when I buy him his own he still goes home. “I just really like my own bed.” A pause sits between us when he breaks the news last night. “You’re not mad, are you?”
“No. But I’m sad,” I say, honest as can be. Why won’t he stay with me??? Why does it seem there’s something wrong with me that I want him to sleep over?!
Tonight we had plans but he begged off earlier saying he needed to pack and hole up in his man cave. What-fucking-ever. Fine.
Lastly, my sister is pregnant with her third baby. I wanted 3 babies. That was my dream. My ex and I tried for a second but the anxiety meds he was on fucked up his sperm. Even an artificial insemination didn’t take. She’s living her life — the life I wanted. Babies everywhere, toddlers in pjs with wet hair from bath time with a strip of sonogram pictures laid out between them on mommy and daddy’s bed. The perfect little batch of kiddies. Who aren’t mine.
I am heart-broken a million different ways. Alone and sad and wanting.
I think half the time the best thing to do is to cut TN loose so I can find someone who expects and wants to spend entire weekends with me. And holidays and birthdays and friends’ things and to whisk me away on road-trip-weekends and introduce me to his family in Seattle or Burbank or Long Island. Instead, I have a guy who loves me, but leaves by 11 pm every night, hates sleepovers, travel, family & friend things, anything whatsoever remotely resembling a commitment or a life together. Like together. Just fucking dating “together.” I’m not even talking “forever together”!
Half the time I think I’m nuts and off my rocker, the other half I think, “No woman would put up with this bullshit, you’re either a genius, a saint, or an asshole, Hy. Anyone would want what you want. There’s nothing wrong with you.” But I’m not convinced and I haven’t figured out which one I am, yet.
Ok, I am in my cups, and feel sadly clear, like the tears on my cheeks. I bet they’re see-through, too.
But, I will be silent for a while longer and see what happens. I will never have 3 babies, nor will I be getting married — possibly ever –, but maybe my boyfriend will finally want to spend the night with me more than 2, 3, 4 times a month and want to be a part of my life — my real life — and if that’s the case, then maybe this will last after all, because as it stands today, all I feel is what I don’t have. Not what I do have.